


Better Than Deep-fried Twinkies

by shift (clarz)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe- Cowboys, Alternate Universe- Rodeo, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Derek, Comeplay, M/M, POV Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3518480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarz/pseuds/shift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a guy sitting cross-legged in the hay, seemingly unconcerned with the cow excrement almost certainly contained within it; Inara’s laid down in front of him, and he’s leaning forward, her huge head cupped tenderly in his hands, his cheek almost touching hers. He looks completely enraptured, staring into her eyes intensely and rubbing her cheeks in slow circles, leaning into her with his whole body like she’s precious and beautiful and everything he ever wanted. It’s weirdly intense, and should really be off-putting, but Inara looks sleepy and calm and happy, and Derek is way too distracted watching the guy’s hands, long-fingered and beautiful, massaging her face tenderly. </p><p>In which Stiles hits on Derek's cow, then hits on Derek. Also in which Stiles' eyelashes are favorably compared with those of a cow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than Deep-fried Twinkies

**Author's Note:**

> It's Rodeo season here in Texas, y'all, and it makes me feel like writing smut.
> 
> A short note: 
> 
> In this fic, I'm using the term bull fighter to refer to what people sometimes call rodeo clowns, as they occasionally wear makeup and/or share a job, but in this story (and in our rodeo here) the roles are separated, meaning there is a rodeo clown who sits in a barrel and wears makeup and does funny stuff while the bull riding happens, and then there are bull fighters who wear brightly-colored but practical clothing, distract the bull and basically throw themselves between the bull and the rider when the rider gets bucked off. Those guys are straight-up badasses.
> 
> Now here, have some boys in cowboy hats kissing.

Derek feels a little sick to his stomach; he’s beginning to seriously regret those fried pickles.

His body’s not used to the amount of grease he’s ingested over the past few days, but he’d gotten distracted while packing, drawn into working on the saddle he’s been obsessing over recently, trying to get the detailing just right, and had seriously miscalculated the snacks he would need to bring. And now they’re sort of trapped here, or trapped enough that no one has time to make a store run for the next couple of days at least, so he’s stuck with the greasy rodeo food and anything he can beg Cora to share with him (which is not much.)

Thinking of Cora makes him realize he hasn’t seen her in a couple of hours, so he stops to lean against a makeshift pen designed to look like a barn where people are cooing over baby goats, pulls out his phone to shoot her a text.

 **Derek** (3:04 pm): Where’ve you been? Got to start getting Inara ready for show soon.

His phone pings with a reply almost immediately.

 **Cora** (3:05 pm): Pre-run Meltdown started early this year. On damage control.

Derek sighs. Laura must be particularly keyed up today- usually she manages to restrain her bouts of panic to the half hour before she has to go on; today she’s got a full hour and a half before her run. You’d think, since she’s been competing in barrel racing at least semi-professionally since high school, and has been full-time on the pro circuit for the past five years, that she’d have learned to handle her nerves better, but she still goes into a panic before every event, convinced she won’t be able to make it. It works for her, though; he’s amazed every time he sees her, at the way she looks sick and pale and keyed-up, all frayed nerves and jitters under her skin, and then somehow, at the last second before she has to start warming up, she pulls it all back in, composes herself and becomes someone else: no longer Laura Hale, 25-year-old orphan who can’t talk to boys without blushing and still sleeps with her security blanket from childhood, but Laura Hale, number 2 WPRA Barrel Racer and undisputed badass. She suddenly exudes this confidence and strength that reminds him so viscerally of their mother that it almost hurts to look at her, but it makes him so proud, seeing his sister doing this thing that she loves, that she does better than almost anyone else in the world.

He shakes his head a little in sympathy for her. This rodeo’s got the biggest purse she’ll be competing for this year, and the most spectators; it makes sense that she’s more stressed out about it than usual. He’s just grateful that the livestock show is big enough that it was worth it for him and Cora to travel down with the cattle for the duration; it’s not often that they get to be with Laura in person to talk her down, and it’s just not the same making do with Facetime.

 **Derek** (3:11 pm): Rough. I’ll come tag you out in 20 or so, give you a break?

 **Cora** (3:14 pm): Ha. Don’t pretend you’re doing this for me, you just don’t wanna have to show Inara.

 **Derek** (3:15 pm): You saying I shouldn’t bother?

 **Cora** (3:15 pm): Not even!!!

 **Cora** (3:16 pm): You come relieve me and I’ll gladly switch. You never get good prices at shows- it’s your resting murder face.

Derek smiles at that, thinks Cora is probably also grateful not to have to talk to Laura for much longer; she loves her but she’s never really been good at talking her down. Not that Derek ever really knows what to say to her, either, but he knows the sick panic she must feel in her gut, can sympathize with it because he’s felt it himself. Cora has never had that same nagging sense of inadequacy. She’s always been too comfortable in her own skin to know what to do with Laura when her spirit frays like this; she gets too jittery in the face of it, doesn’t know how to sit with Laura and let her pull herself back together again, like she’s afraid she might not manage it this time. Derek, on the other hand, knows how to wait her out, knows how to live like that because he does it himself, recognizes that cycle of falling apart and picking yourself up again, remaking yourself every day because you must, because the world doesn’t deserve to see you break forever.

Besides, Cora really does get better prices at the auctions. She’s probably got a point with that murder face thing.

He sends her a final text, letting her know he’ll be there soon, and pushes himself up off the barn display, heads down the mat to the lane where Inara and the other breeding cattle they’re showing today are tied; he wants to check with Isaac and make sure everything’s going all right before he heads over to the stadium. The arena’s too crowded for him to be really comfortable here, too full of bodies with all the rodeo-goers filling the animal exhibits and shopping stalls set up at the front of the huge building, but as he moves along the mats toward the back, where the animals are tied, the crowds thin significantly and he can let himself relax more, just breathe in the smell. It smells like animals, like warm skin and hair and hay, and more than a little bit like the shit smeared over the floor under the hay; it’s certainly not a smell anyone would choose to perfume themselves with, but it smells like home to him, like mucking out the barn throughout his childhood, like the way his workshop smells underneath the stench of the tanning chemicals and oil. He comes up on the lane where their cattle are tied, but Isaac’s not in any of the folding chairs they have set up in the hay. Derek’s about to call him to find out where he is, remind him to help Cora out with grooming before the showtime, when he sees that there actually is someone there, just not anyone he recognizes.

There’s a guy sitting cross-legged in the hay, seemingly unconcerned with the cattle excrement almost certainly contained within it; Inara’s laid down in front of him, and he’s leaning forward, her huge head cupped tenderly in his hands, his cheek almost touching hers. He looks completely enraptured, staring into her eyes intensely and rubbing her cheeks in slow circles, leaning into her with his whole body like she’s precious and beautiful and everything he ever wanted. It’s weirdly intense, and should really be off-putting, but Inara looks sleepy and calm and happy, and Derek is way too distracted watching the guy’s hands, long-fingered and beautiful, massaging her face tenderly. Derek stops a few feet behind the guy, whose back is turned to him, lets himself pause for a moment and watch the strange little tableau; he can’t help but wonder how those hands would feel wrapped around his waist, gentle and strong, what those long fingers might feel like pushing inside him, slow and hot and sure, curling at just the right spot, working him open with steady, single-minded concentration.

The thought sends sparks up his spine, and he shudders a little, snaps himself out of it, because he’s standing on a rubber mat in a huge warehouse, fantasizing about the fingers of some guy whose face he hasn’t even seen yet when he should be helping his sister, and Derek obviously _really_ needs to get laid. He makes a mental note to try to find a night off to hit up a gay club here, find some anonymous stranger to take home and get this out of his system.

He takes the last few steps necessary to put himself almost level with Inara, and this close he can actually hear the guy murmuring to her under his breath, voice low and sweet and slightly scratchy. Derek coughs a little, points his body at the heifer and addresses her.

“Inara, you’ve really gotta stop picking up strangers everywhere we go. It’s getting to be a real problem.”

The guy startles so beautifully, limbs flailing in startled panic and yet somehow never hitting Inara; he ends up with his arms planted behind him on the hay, breathing hard and eyes wide, staring up at Derek. The rest of him is just as beautiful as his fingers, all flushed cheeks and smooth skin and eyelashes to rival the heifer’s, and a mouth that’s downright pornographic, pink and open wide in a perfect bow of surprise, and Derek is 100% _not_ thinking about putting his dick in there.

“ _Bro_ ,” he gasps, still breathless, “you scared the _shit_ out of me.”

He picks himself up off the hay, looking a little embarrassed now, puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs his shoulders up in a way that makes him look like a teenager, and Derek had been sure he was at least Cora’s age, but the kid looks so much like a bashful high schooler right now that Derek begins to wonder how old he is, anyway, whether he needs to feel like a perv for the thoughts he’d been having about his fingers and mouth and _everything_ just now.

“Sorry, man, I was kind of macking on your heifer right there on the floor, but she’s just so freaking _gorgeous_!” he gestures back toward Inara. “I mean, I’m sure you know, obviously, but for real, she’s gonna fetch you some serious cash. If I had that kind of money, I’d buy her myself in a second, and I don’t even have a ranch to put her on.”

He seems to remember himself then, hops nimbly off the hay and onto the mat where Derek’s standing, stumbling forward only a little as he extends his hand toward Derek. “I’m Stiles, by the way- I assume you’ll wanna know who to blame if she turns up pregnant tomorrow.” He cocks his head back toward Inara again, and his cheeks flush even brighter, as if he’s embarrassed himself with his own weird joke. “Inara’s a great name for her, though, she’s irresistible. She yours?”

Derek nods, and Stiles looks him up and down in a way that looks almost unconscious. “I guess that must make you Captain Tightpants, then?”

Stiles looks semi-shocked at his own joke for the second time in so many sentences, and Derek wonders if he runs through _any_ of what he says before it comes out of his mouth. He quirks one eyebrow at him, stares at Stiles silently for a second longer than is comfortable.

“Derek Hale. I’m from Hale Ranch, we’ve got a place about an hour east of Temple. I can only really take credit for her name, though- Isaac’s the one who’s raised her, mostly; I don’t help out with the cattle all that often.”

Stiles cocks his head at him in question. “Well what do you do then if you’re not helping with the cattle, Mr. Hale? Fly around the galaxy picking up interesting strangers and performing business transactions of questionable legality?” The way he says _Mr. Hale_ makes Derek’s pants feel a little too tight in a way he’s really not willing to examine right now.

Derek almost smiles at that, ducks his head a little to hide it. “Well, technically I’m part owner of the ranch with my sisters, but I haven’t been part of the day-to-day really since I was in high school. I’ve got my own workshop on the property, I do custom leatherworking, making saddles and boots and chaps, stuff like that.”

Stiles’ eyes widen, and he leans in toward Derek, whispering exaggeratedly. “ _Does she know?”_ he hisses, cocking his head back toward Inara. “I mean, you make things out of the skins of her slaughtered brethren, man!”

Derek tries to let his eyebrows convey how unimpressed he is, but Stiles’ eyes just twinkle at him, and he’s actually really glad to see Isaac hurrying toward them over Stiles’ shoulder, looking harried, straw sticking out of his hair, because Stiles is something else, something he’s not quite sure how to deal with, and he’s probably woefully late to relieve Cora now.

“ _Derek_ , hey,” Isaac gasps, “Cora texted me, sorry I wasn’t here sooner, I can get started on Inara while you go get her- the show’s gonna be opening soon, Laura’ll have to start warming up in like half an hour.”

Stiles jumps at that, “Holy _fuck_ , it’s almost 3:45? _Shit, motherfucking shitballs_ , Derek, it was like, great to meet you, excellent eyebrows, keep up the good work,” he gestures at Derek’s entire body in an expansive way, “but I’m running _so late_ , Scott is gonna _freak_ , maybe I’ll see you around later, yeah? But if not, kudos on the heifer and the muscles and all of it.”

He claps a hand on Derek’s shoulder, and then he’s gone, almost mowing down several pedestrians and nearly barreling into a longhorn being led down the aisle as he runs off.

Derek manages to get to Laura before Cora has a major meltdown of her own, and she switches with him gratefully when he finally relieves her. He plays some ocean sounds on his iPod, sticking the earbuds in Laura’s ears, and sits with her quietly, holding one of her hands between his and rubbing with both thumbs, thinking idly about boot patterns for when he gets back to his workshop and just breathing with her until she has to go warm up her horse, Talia. He stands and looks her straight in the face before she leaves, watches in awe as she performs her odd Laura magic, pulling herself in and then just _blooming_ into something serene and gorgeous, and she wraps herself around him in a hug before she’s gone.

\--------------

Laura kills it, of course, Derek watching from the sidelines, hanging over the barrier as she and Talia careen around the barrels in perfect sync and then speed back toward the gate, hair flying and legs pumping, one beautiful animal for those few precious seconds. Her time of 14.30 puts her solidly in first place for this leg, guaranteeing her a spot in the semifinals, and Derek rushes back to meet her in the staging pen, catches her as she jumps onto him in joy, legs wrapping round his waist. He inhales her hair and the smell of her joy and he is so fiercely glad that he has this life with her and Cora, that they’ve built this little family out of the ashes of their proper one. He tells her how proud they would be of her, promises to wait for her on the sidelines as she gets Talia handed off to a groom for her cool down. The bull riders come up next, and Laura always makes it a point to watch; she says she admires the athleticism, the skill so different from her own and yet the same, all hinging on the ability to move with and against an animal at the same time, but Derek knows better. She’s dated too many bull riders for this to be a coincidence, but he lets her pretend she’s not just ogling asses to spare her pride. Besides, he likes butts just as much as the next guy; it’s no hardship for him to perch on the rails next to her and watch.

And she’s there, by his side on the rails by the time the announcer starts gearing up, hair wild and cheeks still flushed with pleasure from the adrenaline of her win. Derek watches idly as the clown rolls out his barrel and slides himself down into it, peeking up like a groundhog, hamming it up for the audience, and then the three bull fighters stroll out after him, not made up or wearing anything too ridiculous, just a simple uniform of cowboy hats, garish red basketball shorts and jerseys, high knee socks and sneakers. They mill around, getting into their positions around the pen as the first rider gets his grip ready, sets the grimace on his face before nodding resolutely, steeling himself, and then they’re out, and the bull is twisting and bucking and turning in perfect circles in the dirt and the fighters are dancing around him and it’s all over in less than 5 seconds, the rider thrown off the bull, doing a backflip in the air, and the nearest bull fighter has ducked in front of him before he even hits the ground, putting himself inches from the bull’s horns and giving the rider time to roll away in the dust, pick himself up at a safe distance.

The bull stops bucking pretty soon after that, the fighters leading him away from the rider who limps a little toward the gate as the bull gets led back in. Derek sees one of the fighters come closer to the rails, say something to the vanquished rider and give him a few hearty pats on the back, figures they must know each other; rodeo is a pretty small community, after all, and a lot of the fighters used to be riders themselves, or still are. Then the fighter turns on his heel, heading toward the pen where the next rider is getting set up, and Derek catches his face and has to do a double take, because it’s _Stiles_. Twitchy, awkward Stiles who talks to strange cattle and makes inappropriate jokes and fell over his own feet at least three times in the ten minutes Derek talked to him, _that Stiles_ , is a rodeo bull fighter, one of those guys running around on the ground next to a bucking 1,700-pound animal, one of the guys who willingly throws himself in front of that animal’s horns with no protection to speak of.

He gapes, watching Stiles’ eyes twinkle as he calls something over his shoulder to the rider, jogging back into position, and Derek doesn’t take his eyes off of Stiles for the rest of the competition because he doesn’t have the tools to look away from this, from Stiles. Because Stiles is intent, focused in that same singular way that he was with Inara, all of his attention, all of his body directed toward the animal and the human perched precariously on its bucking back, and his body seems to obey him effortlessly, ducking and dodging and sidestepping in perfect time. He watches Stiles throw himself between bull and rider countless times, flinging himself into danger with an ease that is terrifying and exhilarating to watch, his body a perfect tool aimed at a single purpose, and by the time the scores are tallied and the event is over, Derek is breathless, can practically feel the flush riding high on his cheeks as he watches Stiles laughing with one of the other fighters, jogging out of the arena.

He watches the rest of the rodeo in a daze, unable to stop thinking about Stiles’ face, bright with exhilaration, body relaxed into the intensity of his focus, the flush on his cheeks, and Derek can’t stop himself wondering if he’d have that same focus in bed, if he’d be able to take Derek apart with that same single-minded strength of will. He manages to snap himself out of it to cheer the kids on in the calf scramble, he and Laura screaming tips and encouragement as the poor kids try to harness their calves, laughing helplessly as the few inevitable kids get the calf by the tail and can’t figure out how to get around to the right end, holding on for dear life instead. One girl’s had her calf trapped under her thighs for a good ten minutes, struggling with it, when the calf escapes from under her, and the crowd sighs in disappointment for her, but then Stiles is there, hanging around with some volunteer police officers to make sure no one gets too seriously injured, and he and one of the cops corner the escaped calf, Stiles holding onto it by the tail as the girl comes jogging back over, easily keeping 260 pounds of calf in place so she can try for a second time to get it harnessed. The crowd goes wild when she finally pulls the calf over the line in the center, and Stiles beams and claps from the edge of the floor, face alight.

And because Derek’s life isn’t fair and the universe is obviously conspiring to get him to fall head over heels for this kid, the mutton bustin’ starts and Stiles is there for _that_ , too, helping to secure the five-year-olds’ helmets, making sure their little limbs are wrapped tight around the backs of the sheep before they take off, whooping and cheering as the kids try to hold on to their running sheep. A few of them start crying when they fall off, of course, and Stiles scoops them up easily, carrying them over to their parents at the rails and speaking to them cheerily, making them smile through their tears. Derek’s never really thought he had it in him to have children, but he’s a fucking human being, okay, and the kids are _adorable_ and his heart _melts_ to see Stiles with them, giving them tips before they emerge from the pen, wiping their tears when they fall, high-fiving those brave ones who jump up out of the dirt smiling with fierce delight, and Derek sees that in Stiles himself, that desire to run into danger and emerge bruised and scraped and gleeful and alive. He’s mesmerized.

Laura has to notice him staring, has to see how gone he is, but she just glances a quiet smile at him and pretends not to notice, and Derek is grateful. Unfortunately, Cora shows up right before the mutton bustin’ starts, Isaac on her heels, swelled with pride from the record-setting bid she’d gotten for Inara, and she and Isaac both immediately bracket themselves on either side of Derek at the rails, teasing him mercilessly, because they’ve got some kind of sixth sense or something for how best to make Derek want to die. At least Laura tries her hardest not to look amused; she fails, but Derek appreciates the effort.

\--------------

By the end of the day, when the arena lights have dimmed and they’ve gotten all the cattle loaded into their trailers and the rodeo-goers are all out enjoying the carnival, Derek feels exhausted and dirty and he just wants to sleep for a thousand years. Unfortunately, Laura is signing autographs and Cora is negotiating with some of their purchasers and so Derek is here, in the mostly empty arena, nursing a beer and counting the minutes until he can drive back to the hotel and shower and sleep for as long as possible until he has to do it all over again tomorrow. He’s reclined in the hay where Inara was tied not long ago (he’s lived with animals for too long to be at all bothered by lying around in hay liberally mixed with cattle shit), eyes closed and cold beer bottle held to his forehead, when he hears footsteps go running past him, muffled by the rubber mat. He doesn’t open his eyes, sure it’s one of the hands late to help with loading the animals or something, until the footsteps stop, and then grow in intensity again, as if the runner is jogging backward toward him again.

“Hey.”

He feels a body slump in the hay next to him, close enough that he can feel the heat, just a hair away from touching him, and he looks over to see Stiles, looking just as grimy as Derek feels. He’s changed out of the garish basketball shirt and jersey he’d been wearing in the stadium, back in the jeans and long-sleeved tee he’d been in earlier in the day, but he’s still wearing the cowboy hat; it’s pushed back on his forehead now, and a few strands of hair have escaped, curling wetly with sweat over his forehead. There are circles under his eyes and his eyelids are drooping a little, as if his lashes have become too heavy to hold up, but he still looks healthy, glowing with sweat, dirt smeared on his cheeks, lips flushed. Derek has a sudden urge to straddle him, to get those strands of hair in his mouth and suck the salt from them; he contains himself, but it’s a near thing. He’s too buzzed and sleepy to have many of his inhibitions left, and his mind already seems to get away from him around Stiles. He lifts an eyebrow at him in surprise instead, lifts the corner of his lip in a small smile.

“Hi. Don’t you have somewhere to be, or were you looking for me?”

“Huh?”

“I heard you go running past me- I don’t wanna distract you from your goal.”

Stiles throws his hands in the air in an exaggerated gesture of defeat. “Eh, I was looking for my friend Scott, he’s assisting the show vet and we were supposed to head home together, but I’ve been running around this fucking enormous arena for like fifteen minutes already and I can’t find him. And I saw you and you have beer and you looked comfortable and I’m fucking tired, so Scott can find _me_ when he’s ready to go. Besides, I was wondering how the show went with Inara today. Did she fetch what she’s worth?”

Derek hands him a beer from the cooler next to him, and Stiles moans in appreciation, takes a long swig. Derek is thoroughly distracted by the column of his throat, covered in a sheen of sweat and dust, before he remembers to answer.

“She actually set a record for breeding stock for the show so far.”

“Fuck, way to go, man! I’m not surprised, though, she’s fucking beautiful.”

“A lot of it’s due to Cora, my sister- she’s terrifyingly good at showing the cattle. She doesn’t let me do it anymore, says my face scares off the bidders.”

Stiles groans in disbelief. “Shit, man, I think I’d buy almost anything if it had your face attached to it.” He makes a wide gesture to indicate Derek’s face, nearly smacking him in the nose. He seems to reconsider when he catches sight of Derek’s expression at that, though. “I mean, I guess I can see how the whole stabby eyebrows thing you’ve got goin’ on might put some people off, but not me, dude! I look danger in the face and think: hey, that seems like fun;  _t_ _hat’s_ the thing for me.” He punctuates his statement by jabbing a finger at the air, presumably at some imaginary danger, and then he grins, wide and absolutely breathtaking.

“Yeah, I got that general impression, watching you in the ring tonight.”

“Ha, fuck, I guess the whole ‘maybe possibly getting gored by a bull’ thing is only for those of us who are particularly safety-challenged, huh? My dad fucking hates it, always has.”

“Why do you do it, then?”

“I mean, I started because of Scott- y’know, the same one I was mentioning earlier—on the ranch, guys’ll sometimes stage little bull rides for fun, take bets, I’m sure you know—” he waves a hand dismissively, and Derek nods, “well, we discovered Scott had a real talent for it when we were about sixteen, so he got on the junior rodeo circuit, used to go around to competitions as a way of making extra money; neither of our families had a lot and his winnings almost definitely helped his mom keep the house. And just—there was no way I was gonna trust anyone else to protect him when he fell off, y’know? He’s like my brother, I couldn’t just let him be out there alone. So I’d help distract the bull when he practiced at home, and I went to competitions with him and pestered all the established guys to teach me, and by the time I was eighteen I was good enough that I could usually get hired at all Scott’s rides. I’ve kind of been following him around ever since. I mean, he doesn’t ride anymore, but at this point I just fucking get off on the adrenaline rush, I guess—I do the rodeo here every year, just don’t travel anymore.”

Derek nods solemnly, admires Stiles’ dedication to his friend. If Laura or Cora ever decided to do something as dangerous as bull riding, and he knew there was something he could do to protect them, he’d give everything he had in a second to do it, too, risks be damned. He studies Stiles’ fingers, lazily twirling the neck of his beer bottle, and swallows hard.

“So if you only do this during rodeo season, what do you do for your danger fix for the rest of the year?”

“Attempt to live on a graduate student salary, man—you don’t know danger until you’ve had to eat nothing but ramen for two weeks to make rent. _That’s_ a fucking adrenaline rush!” His laugh is tinged with desperation. “I’m getting my doctorate in Animal Science, focusing on breeding and genetics, so luckily my schedule is flexible enough to let me do this, plus it gives me opportunities to beg people for bodily fluids from their livestock, so it’s actually pretty relevant to my research.”

Stiles’ praise over Inara suddenly means a lot more knowing he’s actually an expert, not just someone who admires a well-built heifer. Derek is weirdly flattered.

“I’d let you take whatever… bodily fluids you needed from Inara, if it would help in your research? She’s still officially ours until tomorrow, so you can get them tonight.”

Stiles’ eyes widen almost comically, and he crashes his forehead into Derek’s shoulder, groaning, “ _Dude_ , you just fucking _made my life!_ Do you even _know_ how hard it is to get samples from farmers, bro, oh my god, and seriously, Inara is, like,  _the most beautiful_ , I can’t wait to get all up in her genes, _fuck!”_ He wraps his arms around Derek’s middle and squeezes him tightly from the side for just a second before going back to leaning against the rail next to him. His shoulder is just barely touching Derek’s now, and Derek feels like his entire awareness has narrowed to that one point of contact, as if he can feel every individual nerve ending in that shoulder. He feels like a fucking teenager, is what he feels like; it must be too long since he’s touched anyone who wasn’t his sisters or Isaac.

Laura shows up then, and much as Derek wants to keep talking to Stiles for literally forever, he is so looking forward to the long shower and warm bed in his imminent future that her presence promises. They lead Stiles to the cattle trailers, where he begins to collect blood from Inara with a glee that would be extremely disturbing if it weren’t so fucking cute, and Stiles is raving to Laura over her barrel racing run, and asking all kinds of questions about Talia’s parentage, and Isaac calls Derek away to help calm down one of their more skittish market steers, and by the time he gets back Stiles is gone. Derek _is_ exhausted when he gets back to the hotel room, but not so exhausted that he doesn’t give himself the best orgasm in recent memory by burying his fingers in his ass in the shower, thinking of Stiles.

\--------------

The next day, Derek is a little worried that he won’t see Stiles again, or that he made him up in some kind of grease-induced hallucination, spends the day in a state of weird, buzzing, low-level panic until the shortened weekday events that night, when he sees Stiles again in the ring. Stiles shows up in their lane again that night, too, and they share a beer, talk some more, and it develops into a kind of ritual for the rest of the week; sometimes Derek catches glimpses of Stiles earlier in the day, talking animatedly with livestock breeders (or, more often, directly to their livestock), sometimes he’s able to make it to the rodeo events where Stiles comes up with ever more ridiculous hand signals to acknowledge his presence at the rails, seemingly discontented with the banality of a wave, and sometimes they don’t see each other at all before evening has fallen; but evening, when the arena has emptied out and echoes in the way only places that were very full not too long ago can, that holds true. Every evening they share a beer and talk, only for a few minutes, but it’s the best few minutes of Derek’s day, listening to Stiles ramble about his research, telling him stories about Derek’s aunt introducing him to leather-working, about his mom showing Laura how to race, always standing slightly closer to each other than can be explained away by friendship, hat brims bumping when their faces get too close. By the end of the week, Derek feels a little bit in love, dizzy in that infatuated and amazed way that has the terrifying potential to be real.

The next Saturday, Derek is alone in the arena, Laura, Cora, and Isaac having all hitched rides to a local bar to engage in the time-honored tradition of getting smashed after a big competition day; Derek begged off, too afraid of missing a chance to see Stiles to accompany them. He’s beginning to think this was silly, though; it’s later than he’s ever stayed, and Stiles still hasn’t appeared, is probably at the bar with everyone else celebrating. Derek stands, leaning his forearms against the railing, pillowing his head, steeling himself to make the drive home.

He must fall asleep for a few minutes or something, because he’s jolted back to reality by the clanging of the railing next to him as Stiles pulls himself up to sit on it, thigh resting so close to Derek’s arm he can feel the hairs on his arm rise, seeking some kind of contact. Derek lifts his head to blink up at him, and Stiles’ eyes are soft and bright as he reaches down, begins precisely plucking bits of hay out of Derek’s hair. He’s wearing his hat, so Derek can’t tell for sure, but he looks newly showered, bright with cleanliness rather than the usual grime sticking to his skin to which Derek’s become accustomed. Derek feels oddly dirty in comparison, but he’s supremely glad for it if it means Stiles will continue grooming him like this.

Still a little sleepy, Derek can’t be bothered to stop himself from pushing his head into Stiles’ palm, letting out a low hum as Stiles rubs at his scalp.

“Hey,” Stiles finally says, quiet. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be here. Everyone else is out getting hammered.”

“Haven’t seen you all day,” Derek responds, almost whispering, as if this is some kind of explanation (this is the entire explanation), and Stiles just nods at him thoughtfully, removes his hand from Derek’s head to push up the brim of his hat a little.

Stiles begins swinging his legs, clanging his beat-up tennis shoes against the bars, and Derek doesn’t know what to say, but he knows something has to happen, and he thinks _fuck it_ , feels a fierce second of bravery before he’s pushing himself off the railing, moving his body between Stiles’ spread legs, resting his palms on those strong thighs. He settles himself there, resting his forehead gently on the flat plane of Stiles’ stomach, and he hears Stiles’ breathing stop, start up again when his hands come to rest on the back of Derek’s neck, broad and steady.

They stay like that for interminable seconds before he hears Stiles’ slight intake of breath, as if he’s come to some decision, and then Stiles is slithering off the railing, dropping to his feet, the entire long line of his body now between Derek and the rail, and before Derek can even react Stiles is kissing him, sure and intense and like they’ve both been waiting for it (they’ve both been waiting for it). Derek’s entire body feels alight, and he simultaneously feels everything around him and nothing but where their mouths are slotting together. There’s the slick heat of Stiles’ tongue in his mouth, briefly, and then Derek feels like he finally catches up, moves to plant a string of open-mouthed kisses along Stiles’ neck. He nudges Stiles’ thighs apart with a knee, presses his own thigh almost viciously into the heat of his groin, nips at Stiles’ neck in approval when he gasps and arches, moving his hips forward into the contact.

“Derek,” Stiles gasps urgently, but Derek’s found just the right angle, rutting against Stiles’ thigh now, and he can’t really be bothered to listen, instead just nibbles at Stiles’ jawline.

But then Stiles repeats it, “Derek!”, and there are palms flat against his chest, pushing him back just enough to remove that friction he was chasing, and Derek might pout a little, but _so what_ , it’s an unfortunate situation, okay? He looks into Stiles’ eyes and they’re shining, lashes so dark they look almost wet, and they’re focused on Derek’s face with an intensity of purpose that Derek needs to look away from, focusing instead on his mouth, dark and slick, his lips parted beautifully, huffing shallow little breaths.

Stiles looks mesmerized, almost steps forward into Derek as if he’s being pulled in, but he stops himself. “Derek, we need to be in your hotel room, like, yesterday, and if we go any farther I won’t be able to stop myself from just, like, fucking you right here, and as romantic as it would be to do it on a pile of urine-soaked hay in a building that smells overwhelmingly of cattle, I think the bed in your hotel might be the more sanitary option, y’know? Plus, like, less chance of being walked in on? I’m personally a pretty huge fan of doors that lock and shit like that, don’t know about you.”

Derek nods, maybe too eagerly (fuck, there’s no such thing as too eagerly in this situation, and if there were, he’s given it up long ago now), because his hotel room is good, that’s a great idea, there is lube there, and condoms, and a bed, and he grabs Stiles’ wrist, pulls him after him to the truck they have parked out back.

By the time they get to his hotel room door, Derek is almost fully hard just from anticipation, and the second they’re inside, Stiles grabs him, hooking his arms round his waist, the flat of his hands pressing into Derek’s back, so he tips the cowboy hat off Stiles’ head with a brush of his hand, gets his fingers twined into Stiles’ still slightly damp hair, using the leverage to kiss him like he can take him apart right there, like he can use his tongue to discover what Stiles is made of.

He walks Stiles back toward the bed, both of them toeing their shoes off blindly onto the floor, tripping a little, straddles Stiles when he falls down onto it, and Stiles holds his breath when Derek closes his teeth gently around his earlobe, lets it out in a long shudder tinged with a whine when he closes his lips and sucks at the tender flesh. Stiles’ hands are ghosting up and down Derek’s biceps, beautiful little gasps falling from his mouth, and Derek growls, pulls Stiles’ shirt over his head.

“Oh my god, great idea, you’re a fucking genius,” Stiles mumbles, tugs off Derek’s own shirt, sitting up slightly to mouth and bite at Derek’s bare chest, drawing a long, low moan from Derek’s throat, rubbing his cheek in his chest hair like a cat. Then Derek grinds his ass against the ridge of Stiles’ cock through their jeans, and Stiles falls back onto the bed, gasping, allowing Derek to rid him of his pants. He cups Stiles’ balls through his boxer briefs, kneading gently as he mouths at the bulge of his erection, soaking the fabric, running his teeth lightly along the ridge of his cock.

Stiles lets out a bitten-off _fuck_ above him, bites down on the side of his own hand, and Derek grins, pulls down the band of Stiles’ briefs with his teeth, and takes all of his cock into his mouth with no preamble, relishing the burn at the back of his throat as Stiles arches helplessly into it. He buries his nose in the hair at the base of his cock, inhaling his sweet scent there before he begins to move in earnest, Stiles gripping at his hair as he wraps his tongue around the head. He lets Stiles fuck up into his mouth, still massaging at his balls and perineum with one hand, and Stiles is gasping and letting out a string of disconnected half-formed words, most of which are just some variation of _fuck_ and _shit_ and occasionally _holy_.

Then Stiles pulls his head up, with almost too much force, and he’s staring into Derek’s eyes, saying “Derek, I need you to let me fuck you right now or I’m going to _die_ ,” and that sounds like such a good idea that Derek’s hips grind down into the mattress of their own accord, and he’s already fetching the lube and condoms from the nightstand, pulling off his jeans and briefs in one fast motion before Stiles can say, “Or, y’know, you fuck me, I don’t give a _shit_ , just someone’s dick needs to be in someone’s ass _very soon_.” Derek tosses Stiles the lube and condoms, though, settles himself on the bed on his back, already idly squeezing at his own cock.

“No, I want you to fuck me. I’ve wanted you inside me since about fifteen seconds after I first saw you.”

And Stiles nods a little frantically, leans over Derek to kiss him, slow and sloppy, and then a lube-slick finger is circling his hole and Derek already, impossibly, feels as if he’s about to come any second. Then Stiles presses in with one finger, slowly, steadily fucking him with it, and Derek has barely begun to moan before that finger curls inside him, right over his prostate, and he feels as if his entire insides have turned to a golden liquid, pleasure sloshing around inside of him, making his ears ring so he can barely hear the groan being wrenched out of his mouth. He writhes on Stiles’ finger, a desperate little whine forming unbidden at the back of his throat, and then one of Stiles’ palms comes to rest on his stomach, steady and firm, and Stiles murmurs, “Shhh, I’ve got you,” soothing and tender, and then there’s another finger pushing in and Derek can’t help himself from thrusting down onto them, fucking himself open, begging for more.

He looks down when Stiles adds a third finger, to where he’s kneeled between Derek’s legs now, and he’s staring down at where his fingers are entering Derek, looking so focused and gentle and single-minded, as if he’s watching something fascinating and indescribable, and he’s still murmuring encouragement to Derek, shushing his little moans, and Derek manages a strangled, “Stiles, I _need you to fuck me_.” That seems to snap Stiles out of his reverie, and he looks up at Derek, still a little dazed, and grins, giving his fingers a little twist before he removes them.

Derek loses track of time without Stiles inside him, gritting his teeth and waiting desperately, registering only vaguely the rip of the foil of the condom, and it feels like an eternity before Stiles’ body is back over his, mouth on his own, and Derek kisses him like there’s nothing else, and then the head of Stiles’ cock nudges at his hole, and Stiles swallows his gasps with his mouth, pushing into him slow and constant. When he bottoms out inside him, Stiles lets out a beautiful little sigh, as if he’s home, as if he’s found somewhere he belongs, and it turns into a gasp when Derek pushes himself up, getting Stiles’ cock impossibly deeper inside him, and then Stiles really begins to move, and Derek is moaning helplessly, all of his being drawn into the pool of liquid heat building at his core, and Stiles is swearing again over him, driving steadily into him, taking him apart like he was made for it.

Derek thinks it can’t get any better, thinks maybe he’ll die here like this, and then Stiles lifts one of Derek’s legs, brings it to rest on his shoulder, and _there_ , suddenly the head of Stiles’ cock is rubbing right over Derek’s prostate with every stroke, and Derek’s pushing up into it, urging him faster, can’t help the wanton cries falling from his mouth, and Stiles is groaning, “ _Fuck_ , Derek, you feel so good, you’re so good for me,” wincing with pleasure, and Derek vaguely remembers to wrap a hand around his own cock, pulls a couple of squeezing strokes, and then his vision greys out for a second as he comes, coating his stomach in streaks of white, feeling his entire body contract with the force of it, ears ringing, and Stiles almost yelps over him as his own orgasm rolls through him.

When Stiles rolls off him, sprawls next to him panting and slick with sweat, Derek realizes his eyelashes are wet, tears wrenched from him by pleasure. He blinks through them over at Stiles, manages a ragged, “Holy shit.”

Stiles turns his head toward him, hair plastered to his forehead, and grins wide. “You can say that again.”

They come down like that, breathing evening out sprawled next to each other, just enough time for Derek’s brain to begin to work again, and he’s just started to worry again as Stiles moves into the bathroom on shaky legs to dispose of the condom, but then Stiles calls out from the bathroom, “So, how far is it to Temple? Like, two and a half hours?”

Derek smiles, murmurs an assent, and then Stiles is flopping onto the bed next to him again, resting his head on Derek’s chest.

He strokes his hand through Derek’s chest hair, dips down to collect some come off his stomach with a finger before popping it into his mouth, humming in satisfaction. “Good, because there’s no way this isn’t happening again, many many times, in many different positions, and I’d drive way more than two and a half hours just to get another taste of this.”

“Because _this_ ,” he takes Derek’s hand, swirls one of his fingers through the come on his stomach, holding it up to show him, “is way better than deep-fried twinkies.”

He grins as he takes the finger into his mouth lasciviously, swirling his tongue around it, and Derek can’t help but grin back, wide and comfortable and amazed that Stiles exists.

**Author's Note:**

> Some videos of the rodeo events mentioned, in case you're curious (I think most people are familiar with bull riding, but I'm not sure about the other events):
> 
>  
> 
> [barrel racing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZM1UnyOw0h4)
> 
>  
> 
> [bull riding](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0f81-ZhDCkU) (you can see the fighters doing their thing in some of this, too)
> 
> [calf scramble](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XSYKXEiUqeE)\- I think this is mostly (or only?) a Houston Rodeo thing, but it's my favorite always!
> 
> [mutton bustin'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tm_FTC_Za98)\- you can see the fighters helping out here, too!
> 
> Come be my friend on [Tumblr](http://shiftsideways.tumblr.com)!


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